“By all means, my love, save your beauty for my eyes alone. Your devotion pleases me.”
That was hardly the angry response she had expected to draw for her slight, Leila thought with vexation as he dug his heels into his war-horse and thundered to the nearest list where Roger was already waiting for him.
This time the crowd did not fall silent. The cheering rose to a fever pitch as the master of the joust raised the golden banner, then dropped it.
Leila’s irritation fled, her heart hammering. She had the strangest sensation that events were happening in slow motion. Paying no heed to the other jousting knights, she watched numbly as Guy and Roger bore down upon each other, lances lowered, drawing closer and closer, then the familiar thwacks rang out followed by the sound of splitting wood.
“God’s bones, they’ve both broken their lances!” John blustered loudly.
Leila felt a tightness in her chest as Guy rode unharmed to the opposite end of the list. He sharply wheeled his war-horse and took up the new lance handed to him by his squire. How long would this madness continue? she wondered, her throat so dry she could barely swallow.
She sat on the edge of the bench as the banner was lifted and held high for what seemed an interminable moment, the master of the joust waiting for the victors and unseated knights to leave the field. Now there were only two opponents left in the lists—Roger Gervais and Guy de Warenne. All eyes were focused on them as the banner fell again.
The lances broke twice more. A fierce tension seemed to hold everyone in its grip. Leila did not think she could bear to watch anymore, and she stared blindly at her lap, listening to the master of the joust bellow above the din.
“This is the final run! If there is no clear victor, the match will be declared a draw.”
“Leila, you’re going to miss it,” Blanche said. “Look, they’re charging!”
With great reluctance, Leila lifted her head in time to wish she hadn’t. Her eyes grew wide with horror as Guy was knocked violently from the saddle and landed flat on his stomach.
Several moments passed. When he did not make the slightest motion to rise, a rumbling of disbelief rose from the crowd. The favored champion was down. Maybe injured. Maybe worse. Some bystanders began to leap the fence and race toward the first list, as did mounted de Warenne knights who had been watching from the sidelines.
“No,” Leila murmured, her heartbeat pounding like thunder in her ears. “No!” Guy couldn’t be …
She rose, almost unaware she was doing so, dodging Blanche who tried to grab her arm, and hurried past stunned lords and ladies to the stairs leading to the field.
She had to reach Guy.
Nearly tripping down the steps in her haste, Leila lifted her skirts and began to run. She could hear John and Matilda calling out for her to stop, saying there were too many people and horses now on the field and she might be trampled, but their shouts were soon lost in the commotion. She did not slow her pace until she reached the congested list.
“Let me pass!” she demanded hoarsely, wrenching aside her face veil and fighting for breath as she pushed her way through the crush of knights and spectators surrounding the spot where Guy had fallen. “I’m his wife. Please, let me pass!”
She still had a ways to go when a loud cheer went up from the gathered onlookers, which was echoed by those watching from the stands. Then a deep, familiar voice said almost apologetically, “I fear Gervais got the better of me this time, my lords. That fall knocked the wind right out of me. Or perhaps it was my wedding night that proved my undoing. My beautiful wife was loath to let me sleep.”
Leila froze, her face burning as male laughter rang out on all sides. She did not know if she was more relieved or angry. Here she had thought Guy was fatally wounded, and instead, he was making jokes and blaming her for his mishap!
“Why, your wife is right here, Lord de Warenne,” shouted a tall knight standing next to her.
As the men in front of her began to step aside, forming a narrow path, Leila groaned inwardly, any hopes of retreating before Guy spied her vanishing into thin air. Now he would see for himself just how concerned she had been, for why else would she have run out onto the field?
Love had propelled her. She could no longer deny it to herself, troubling though the realization was. She had never felt such heartrending anguish as when she had thought he might be dead. Yet she couldn’t let Guy guess the truth. It would only foster his hope for something that could never be.
Nothing had changed. She was as determined to leave him as ever, as determined to prove to him the impossibility of their marriage. She simply could not allow her emotions to override her will to return home to Syria. Her lifelong dream was in Damascus; everything for which she had worked so long and so hard was in Damascus. She would not forsake it. She had to think of another reason for her presence on the field, and fast
“Leila.”
Even as her name upon his lips filled her with joy, Leila resolutely hardened her heart against him. She had to. How else could she win the fierce battle that waged in her soul, this unsettling new love vying for dominion over the life in Damascus that she had vowed to reclaim.
As Guy approached her with a slight limp, his helmet held under one arm, she thought of how he had mercilessly wrenched her from everything she knew and loved, and felt a little stronger. Just a little.
“What are you doing here, my love? The tournament field is no place for a woman.”
“I-I thought you might be wounded,” she replied, steeling herself against the frank warmth of his gaze, “so I came as quickly as I could.” When a pleased smile spread over his sweat-streaked face, she knew she had given him the wrong impression, but he spoke before she could continue.
“I am touched by your concern, Leila.”
With difficulty she feigned a nonchalant tone. “‘Tis no more than any physician would do for an injured man, unless you have forgotten that medicine was my life’s work long before I became your unwilling wife.”
“I have not forgotten,” Guy replied tersely, his smile fading. His voice fell to a harsh whisper. “Wearing veils and refusing to grant tokens is one thing, Leila, but if it is now your plan to play the shrew, then I suggest you save your barbs for our bedchamber. It is bad enough that I lost a joust to your brother. I will not be humiliated by my wife before my fellow knights. Is that clear?”
Leila nodded, stung by his words, but before she could reply, Guy muttered under his breath, “Speak of the devil.”
She turned and was surprised to see Roger riding up to them, his helmet off, an inscrutable expression on his face. He reined in his lathered war-horse only a few feet away and surveyed them both coldly.
“What a touching sight you made, my sister, dashing out onto the field to reach your fallen husband. Too bad you did not find yourself a widow.”
“Don’t overestimate your skill, Gervais,” Guy said. “Good fortune might have played into your hands today, but there will be other matches in which you might just as easily find yourself the one eating dirt.”
“Is that a challenge, de Warenne? If so, I accept. I would like nothing more than to have another go at ramming my lance down your throat. I’ll see that the opponent I draw on the morrow yields his place to you.”
“Done.”
Roger bowed his head mockingly as he gathered the reins. “Lady de Warenne.”
“This is madness,” Leila cried, watching her brother ride away in a spew of dust. She turned back to Guy, not believing what she had just heard. “Surely you can see he wants to kill you. My brother wants vengeance.”
“As do I,” Guy muttered, his gaze still following Roger’s retreating figure. “And what better place than at the king’s tournament, where revenge may be hidden under the guise of lawful sport. Your brother at least has the right idea there. I say, may the better man win.”
Leila shivered at the bitter venom in his voice. Try as she might, she could not suppress her deep concern for him. N
or could she bear the thought that Guy might be killed because of her.
“But Roger defeated you once, my lord. What makes you think it won’t happen again, and this time to his satisfaction?”
“Enough!” Guy demanded, his eyes clouded with hurt and anger as he fastened them upon her. “As you already pointed out to me, I will not flatter myself to think you might truly care about my welfare. You fear my death only because of how it may affect you, isn’t that right, Leila?”
She wanted to answer yes, but she couldn’t. It was not the truth. Not anymore. Nor could she say no for fear of giving away her feelings. So she kept silent, letting him think the worst.
“And after last night I thought …” Guy did not finish, but scanned the knights who stood off to the side. “Langton!”
“My lord?” Henry asked, striding over.
“Escort Lady de Warenne back to the pavilion. I believe the crowd grows anxious for the next match.” He said no more, only turned away and walked toward his destrier.
The trumpets sounded, but Leila barely heard them. She stared after Guy, overwhelmed by the hurtful tangle their lives had become.
Who could say what cruel trick kismet would play upon them tomorrow when he and Roger met once more in the lists? Whatever the outcome, the sooner she managed to leave this country the better.
Chapter 21
“Any trouble tonight, Robert?” Guy asked his solemn-faced knight as he approached the door to his bedchamber. He acknowledged with a nod the two men-at-arms standing at Burnell’s side.
“No, my lord. Your lady has been as quiet as a mouse, and we’ve had no unwelcome visitors come this way.”
“Good. The ale and wine are still running freely in the hall, but take care you’re all able to ride at dawn.”
“Aye, that we will, my lord.”
Guy waited until the three men had disappeared down the shadowed hall before he lifted the latch and entered the silent, dimly lit bedchamber.
It was very late, and he barred the door carefully so as not to wake Leila. Accompanied by an escort which had also served as her personal guard while he remained in the great hall, she had retired from the post-tournament feast hours ago, pleading a headache, which he was also now suffering. The plentiful red wine he had consumed since losing the joust to Roger had done much to soothe his foul mood, but had left his head pounding.
At least he could be thankful that there would be no tournament for him tomorrow, Guy thought, pulling off his boots. After propping them by the door, he crossed the floor quietly, very much aware of his unsteady gait.
“Damn lucky thing, too,” he muttered under his breath, berating himself for drinking so much. He doubted he would have been at his best, a disadvantage Roger would have seized upon with glee. But there would be no more jousting tomorrow for any of the Marcher lords, including that bastard Gervais.
An exhausted messenger had arrived from Wales only an hour past with an important missive for Edward. Despite the ample number of men who had been left behind to govern the region during the coronation festivities, the restless Welsh were harrying English castles and the surrounding villages with a vengeance. Anticipating a possible rebellion, Edward had ordered all Marcher lords to return home at once and see to their castles’ defenses.
Guy had already told his men to be prepared to leave for Warenne Castle at dawn. Most of the disturbances were centered in northern Wales, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Not with his young son at risk. He was glad to be leaving anyway. It was time Leila saw her new home.
As he drew back the bedcurtains, soft light from a single oil lantern spilled across the bed. It was empty, the mattress practically stripped but for a single linen sheet.
Suddenly he felt stone cold sober.
By God, had Leila fled? His gaze swept the shadows. No, it wasn’t possible. Burnell had been outside the door all evening, and this room was on the third floor of the palace, which ruled out the windows. Then where the hell was she?
He tensed when he heard a slight rustling coining from the other side of the bed. Rounding it in a rush, he tripped when his foot became entangled in cloth, and he caught the corner post just in time to keep from falling. He was astonished to find Leila sleeping on the floor on a mound of bedcovers and pillows.
A smile twitched at Guy’s lips. What defiant game was this? The day had already been full of such curious, surprises. It appeared that she was fast asleep, one delicate hand tucked under her softly rounded chin, yet he sensed she was only pretending. Her breathing was a bit too regular, and her other hand was wound into a small fist that was curled rather tightly for slumber.
Would she flail at him, he wondered, if he so much as made a move toward her? He could hardly blame her if she did. He hadn’t exactly behaved the chivalrous gentleman after his unfortunate match with Roger.
His smile gone, Guy moved to the foot of the bed and stripped off his clothes, throwing them on a chair with a good amount of self-disgust.
What had happened to his firm resolve to be patient and caring with her, no matter how she goaded him? Leila had certainly vexed him this afternoon out on the jousting field, and how had he reacted? Like a belligerent ass.
What had he expected anyway? That one night of lovemaking would miraculously change her mind about him? Even if it had made some small difference, he had probably destroyed any progress he had achieved with his angry accusation. And even if she had been somewhat concerned for him, he had been so incensed after that strained encounter with Roger that he would have missed entirely any caring intent behind her words.
The devil take it, there was nothing like losing a jousting match to one’s mortal enemy to bring out the worst in a man, Guy thought dryly. He went to the table and snuffed out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
He had acted like a brash, hotheaded youth in the first place by even agreeing to the change in opponents. He did not doubt his prowess with the lance, but his lack of sleep—not that it hadn’t been worth it!—the night before had hardly put him in good stead to take on Gervais. In the morning he would undoubtedly see a wealth of ugly bruises to attest to his foolhardiness.
Guy walked back around the bed, wincing at his sore muscles.
From now on in any of his dealings with that bastard, cold reason would rule. Either that, or Leila would become a very beautiful widow—hardly a thought he relished. He would have to watch his back once they were in Wales. Roger probably had just such a grim scenario in mind, though he would be a fool to act upon it. King Henry had forbidden them to make war on each other, and the decree still stood under Edward.
Entranced by the lush rose scent of Leila’s perfume drifting to him from the floor, Guy forced away his unpleasant thoughts as he gently picked her up. He knew she was awake when her slender body tensed in his arms.
“I don’t know what game you’ve been playing all day, my love, but I will not have my wife sleeping on the floor like some beggar.”
Her guise of sleep discovered, Leila wriggled against his bare chest, her heart racing. “I play no game!”
“No?” he asked, depositing her on the bed. The pillows and velvet spread quickly followed, then Guy climbed in beside her, hauling the covers to his waist. She attempted to slide away from him but he easily caught her, gathering her close.
“Then what do you call wearing veils in the manner of eastern women? After you left the feast tonight, Matilda was beside herself as she told me how you ruined one of your new gowns to make a head scarf, and Lady Blanche expounded upon your rudeness. You refused me a token during the tournament, called people gluttons at supper, and lectured them to partake of a more moderate diet. Then you demanded that the servants bring you pillows to sit upon and olives, dates, and yogurt” —Guy raised himself on his elbow— “none of which would they likely find in the king’s kitchens. And now I find you sleeping on the floor. Need I remind you, Leila, that you are not in Damascus anymore?”
“No, you do not need t
o remind me!” Leila snapped, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressed against her.
“Then what are you trying to prove? I would almost swear you are purposely seeking to humiliate me—” He stopped when Leila gasped. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he demanded softly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she countered, astounded that he would so easily read her intentions. “I am only being myself. I may have English blood in my veins, but I will not play the part of a proper English lady.”
“Nor do I want you to,” Guy said, running his finger along her stubborn jaw. “You cannot humiliate me, Leila, for I love everything about you that is different. And you may have shocked the court today, but most people realize that you come from a foreign land. Nevertheless, I can see that I have forced our customs and clothing upon you too rapidly. In time, I believe you’ll grow to accept them, but if it pleases you now to wear your veils, then do so.”
His words took Leila completely by surprise. She would never have expected such understanding from him. No wonder her attempts to embarrass him had only amused him. That is why she had finally feigned a headache and left the feast early, her frustration at the failure of her plan becoming so great that she was afraid she would lose her temper and give herself away.
And to think she had believed her actions would hasten her return to Damascus and thus free herself from her perplexing emotions! She couldn’t have been more wrong. Now she would have to think of another plan.
“Perhaps one night I might even try your custom of sleeping upon cushions,” he continued, curling his arm around her waist. “But not tonight. We must rise before dawn, only a few hours away, and it is important that we get a good rest, something I don’t think sleeping on the floor will allow, at least not for me.”
“Why must I also rise at dawn, my lord?” she asked, confused. “I know you must prepare for the tournament—”
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